- VI -
Out Of Jealousy
The Westminster Gazette
ANOTHER HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
WILD BEAST ATTACK OR CRUEL ANIMAL ABUSE?
Not yet a year after the last inscrutable incidents in the neighbourhood of Hampstead Heath, a new mysterious event occurred in the park, seemingly on Thursday night. The carcasses of two swans, horribly butchered and lacerated, were found at the waterside of the western lake on Friday morning. An attack as brutal as this cannot be the deed of a fox or stray dog, Sir Timothy Porter, experienced huntsman in her Majesty's service, assured our interviewer. According to our archives, however, no larger beast of prey has ever been sighted near the birds' overwintering spot.
Has a wild predator escaped from the zoological gardens again, now roaming free in the city?
Or is this a case of horrid animal cruelty, committed by man?
The Westminster Gazette will keep investigating.
Doctor Florence Seward threw away the lurid newspaper with its immoderately dramatic headline and sat down at her desk in the dimly lit office. For almost an hour she took notes on her last patient's change of symptoms, while a forgotten cigarette burned down in the ashtray on her desk. Her new secretary she had already sent home, for the girl, who was not as organised as she would have liked in any event, in addition tended to get tired and unconcentrated in the late afternoon. Now that she thought about it, the young woman was in many ways no improvement to Mr Renfield.
Although she had made her peace with the dreadful events in conjunction with Vanessa Ives, some chimaeras continued creeping out of the dark corners of her unconscious from time to time. Tonight, it was the image of her former employee's face, contorted in frenzied lunacy, raving about the end of the world, before biting off a toad's head.
She wondered how he might fare in Bethlem, for the facility was certainly not known to be a recreation home. Should she have visited him there since?
Dr Seward didn't get around to think about this question further as there was a resolute knock on the door. Was it another patient, wandering in unannounced due to a distress? Sighing, she called for whoever it was to enter, and was rather surprised to see Dr Frankenstein, accompanied by a tall, long-haired man of Indian origin.
"Good evening, Dr Seward," Victor greeted her. "Forgive our intrusion at such a late hour, but may we have a word, please?"
Taking the last draw from her cigarette, she gave him and his companion a displeased look, but then gestured for them to take a seat. Although still ill-humoured, Florence did not regret hearing them, for after Frankenstein had introduced his friend as Dr Henry Jekyll, they told her a rather interesting, maybe disquieting story, which also included Renfield's case.
"And you are sure you had no contact with your serum in any way, Dr Jekyll?" Seward asked, just to be sure his amnesia was not chemical-induced.
Suddenly, Henry – who had been quite composed until this moment – sprang from his chair, crossed the room with a long stride and ended up banging a fist on her desktop.
"Sod it!" he hissed between gritted teeth. "I did not experiment on myself! How many times do I have to repeat that?!"
Dr Seward raised an eyebrow, but otherwise remained unimpressed by this fit of rage, as she was used to patients losing their temper in various situations.
"Return to your seat, please, Dr Jekyll," she said in a calm, but insistent tone. "There is no point in getting upset upon your condition."
"My condition?!" the chemist snapped, his voice growing louder and fiercer with every syllable. "You're talking to me as if I was a madman!"
"No, Doctor, I am not," Florence continued, unoffended. "I am talking with you like with every other patient. And if you calm down and allow me to treat you, I may help you recover your lost memories."
Jekyll sucked in the cigarette smoke pervaded air, clenching his fists, but then reluctantly sat back down and waited for her to go on.
"I am going to hypnotise you and lead you back to the last moment you can remember," the psychologist explained, then fixed Henry's black eyes with her scrutinising gaze. "Do you trust me?"
Jekyll hesitated at first, but when Dr Frankenstein placed a hand on his shoulder and reassuringly nodded, the chemist gave his consent.
"Alright then, listen to the ticking of the table clock, and only to it," Dr Seward instructed, her voice cool and steady. "Concentrate on that sound and nothing else..."
John Clare was the luckiest man in London. The lady in white had been so fascinated by his writing that she had allowed him to stay at her mansion, granting him access to her library. She would also act as his patron and support him in publishing his poetry.
What had he done to deserve such fabulous fortune? Sitting at a desk between ceiling-high shelves and piles of books, he took out pen and paper, and while a warming ray of winter sunlight fell in through the window, he created a beautiful landscape of verses, an atmospheric painting of his innermost feelings:
Far spread the moorey ground a level scene
Bespread with rush and one eternal green
That never felt the rage of blundering plough
Though centuries wreathed spring's blossoms on its brow
Still meeting plains that stretched them far away
In uncheckt shadows of green, brown, and grey
Unbounded freedom ruled the wandering scene
Nor fence of ownership crept in between
To hide the prospect of the following eye
Its only bondage was the circling sky
One mighty flat undwarfed by bush and tree
Spread its faint shadow of immensity
And lost itself, which seemed to eke its bounds
In the blue mist the horizon's edge surrounds
His Mistress had not chastised him physically, nor with further reprimanding words. No, her way to show him her disapprobation proved to be so much crueller, for she punished him with her absence, bereaving him of the sweet sight of her beautiful face and the delightful sound of her bell-like voice. The only sign of life he got from her was a daily cup of crimson on the kitchen table, along with a note, listing his tasks in her pretty handwriting. Renfield collected and kept the slips of paper like devotional objects, like they were pieces of the Holy Scripture, but they would never, never ever substitute for a spoken word from her soft lips. He meticulously, but dully executed her orders as instructed, while not a moment passed in which he did not think of her.
Today "tidying the library" was on his list and he went for the oaken door, placing his hand on the ornate brass handle for the first time since living in the Godalming mansion. With a creak, the huge portal swung open, revealing a vast vault, filled up to the ceiling with myriads of books. Due to his profession, Renfield was able to read quite fast and grasp the essence of texts by merely skimming over the pages, but to acquaint himself with all these tomes even he would have needed to spend a lifetime in this library. Fortunately, he just had to tidy them up.
Just as he reached for the nearest pile of books, however, a rather strange smell reached his nose, a smell one could describe as a mixture of ink, mouldy cloth and unwashed hair. Renfield knitted his brow and bared his teeth in disgust. It was a smell he knew better than he would have liked, the odour of that brutish poet! Why the hell was he still here?!
Despite the blinding effect the flat dipping sunlight had on his sensitive eyes, he approached the desk by the far window with vigorous steps, and indeed found that fiend sitting there, crouched over some indistinct scribble.
"What are you doing in my Lady's library, you monstrous ghoul?" Renfield straightforwardly addressed him.
John Clare raised his yellowish eyes from his writing, staring at his patron's mad servant in distaste.
"You are calling me a ghoul?" he asked in a calm, but impressive tone. "Better take a good look in the mirror before you judge others, my swan eating friend."
With that he threw him today's newspaper, the title of which read quite alarming. Renfield's pale blue eyes ran over the front article for a second, then he tossed the gazette in the waste bin.
"They know nothing!" he said haughtily. "But you haven't answered my question yet, creature!"
"After reading my recent verses, Lady Godalming decided to take on patronage of my work. She also allowed me to stay here at the mansion and use the library to my liking," the poet explained, unimpressed. "And incidentally, my name is John Clare."
A throbbing feeling of acidic jealousy rose within Renfield's chest. His Mistress had shown that disgusting, loathsome, deformed... thing so much kindness, while he was not even allowed to behold her sweet porcelain face. He gritted his teeth, uttering an angry hiss, before turning on his heels and heading for the door. He would postpone his task of tidying the library to a later hour.
She found herself heading down the dark, mouldy Bethlem corridor again, at first not sure if she had entered her own memory or anyone else's. When she beheld the figure of a man, however, she knew this scene did not originate from her past, for it was none of her friends, but Dr Henry Jekyll walking in front of her.
After reaching their destination, Henry drew a key from his pocket, unlocked the heavy door to a cell Florence recognised as Renfield's and they entered the small room together.
Only in his shirt and trousers, his hair dishevelled and his pale face dirty with dust, the young man sat on the floor in silence.
"Good evening, I am Dr Henry Jekyll," the chemist introduced himself.
Seward's former secretary did not react to his visitor in any way, instead staring out the small barred window with a wistful expression on his gaunt features.
"And your name is...?" Henry tried again to address him, but the patient still seemed absent-minded.
"Can you tell me your name, please?" There was an annoyed undertone to Jekyll's voice now. "Do you remember your name?"
Suddenly Renfield cocked his head and his unnaturally light blue eyes rolled from the window to the doctor in an exaggeratedly slow motion.
"Do I remember my name? What kind of a question is that?", he asked in a half cynical, half offended drawl.
"Well, sometimes there are indeed residents in this facility who cannot..."
"Richard Mortimer Renfield, that is my name!" the patient interrupted him with a snarl.
"Alright, Mr Renfield," Jekyll took a deep breath, trying to keep a neutral face."How are you feeling today?"
"Oh, splendid! I've never been better." His words oozed with cynicism."There is only one little favour I would like to ask of you, my good Doctor."
"And what would that be, if I may inquire?" Henry mimicked the madman's overblown courtesy.
Suddenly, Renfield's pasty features turned into a horrifying mask of feverish frenzy, the dark veins on his cavernous cheeks protruding, his eyes lighting up like flames, sharp teeth flashing between parched, contorted lips.
"Feed me!" he hissed, his voice eerily echoing from the mouldy walls.
Jekyll's eyes widened in shock and he instinctively took a step backwards.
"Please calm yourself, Mr Renfield!" He attempted to sound pacifying. "I am sure you are served three meals a day like every other patient. Porridge and bread if I remember correctly."
To his relief, Renfield's face took on an almost human form again and he seemed to think about Henry's words.
"Well, that is indeed true, Doctor, undoubtedly true, indeed," he uttered.
Then, however, like a storm surge he dashed at him, seizing his lapels, cyanide eyes burning into his.
"But I need blood, you stupid twat!" Renfield spat at him, voice cracking with lunacy."Give me blood and flesh and lives! Or I swear I will kill you and eat you up the next time I see you walking in through that door!"
Aghast, Jekyll pushed him away with all the strength he could muster and instantly called for the warders. Averting his gaze, he only heard them clubbing the frenzied maniac down, the cell, the corridor, his ears reverberating with cries and howls of uproarious insanity. Dr Seward watched as Henry stumbled away from the horrid scene, panting, his head spinning with a poisoning mix of dreadful emotions.
"Henry, Henry, wake up!" Victor seized his friend's shoulders, carefully giving him a shake.
Jekyll's eyes fluttered open, but he still seemed dazed. Dr Seward rose from her seat, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, then patted away the pearls of sweat on Henry's forehead.
"Is he supposed to be so frazzled after a hypnosis session of yours?" Frankenstein hissed in a cynic tone, while checking Jekyll's pulse.
"He relived a rather emotional memory," Florence answered. "Therefore, a reaction such as this is not uncommon."
"And did you uncover those lost hours?" the physician asked further, eager to finally decipher the enigma of Henry's amnesia.
"Unfortunately, no," Seward muttered, frustration evident in her voice. "It was not the memory you have been searching for. We could try a second session tomorrow, but until then he should rest."
Noticing his own weariness now, Frankenstein nodded. "Alright, I will take care of him."
With that he took his groggy friend's arm, helped him up from his chair and walked him out of the office. On the threshold he stopped and turned around again.
"Thank you for your effort, Dr Seward," he expressed his gratitude.
A faint half smile appeared on the austere woman's face, while she lit another cigarette.
Renfield sat at Lady Godalming's desk, trying to go through the latest real estate adverts, but unable to concentrate on the details. Alongside his Mistress's sweet features and Clare's ugly scarface, those words, printed black on white, constantly kept reappearing in front of his inner eye: The Westminster Gazette will keep investigating...
What if there had been a witness after all? What if that undead poet betrayed him?
What are you going to do, blood of my blood? Dracula's whisper crept into his mind, making him flinch. With a shake of his head, the dark presence was gone again, but as much as he loathed him, the Master was right. He had to somehow act on this matter!
Nervously, Renfield tapped his fingers on the polished desktop for a while, until an idea sprang to his mind. Oh, and what an idea it was! A devilish flash of genius! With a nasty grin on his pasty features, he took out a blank piece of paper and began to write in block letters: TO THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE...